


Talking to the Dead

by latenightreading



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latenightreading/pseuds/latenightreading
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly contemplates how she had come to know Sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talking to the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote a short angsty Sherlolly fic because I’ve been having so much feels about this pairing.

The young woman, slightly above thirty years of age, wiped her hands on her white lab coat. Her hair tied back in a simple ponytail. She wore a floral blouse over baggy black slacks and rubber shoes. There was no reason to dress up where she worked. A desolate place. She had worked in the morgue for so long that she had forgotten how to interact with people; living people.

 

She was socially awkward and she didn’t know what to do about it. Not as if she hadn’t tried. She went out on dates, gone to parties, but it never went according to her plans. At first she thought it was her job, how she worked in a morgue that threw people off. From then on, she never really talked to people about her work. But she was still alone. There was something she wasn’t getting. Why were people avoiding her? Why was she still alone?

 

If she could just open them up, see how they work, what they’re thinking, what their problem is, maybe then it would be easier. But all she had for company were these lifeless bodies and lab apparatuses.

 

“I’m so sorry about what happened to you” she casually tells one of the cadavers. She had made a habit of talking to the dead things around her. Not intentionally, at first she just talked to herself out loud, hummed a little tune, tried to stop feeling lonely. Then it just happened, she had talked to one of the icy gray bodies she was shutting in to a drawer.

 

It felt good to talk to someone, she told herself. There was no harm in it. She was alone. No friends, family rarely called. Who else would she talk to?

 

“Who else?” she touched the pale white skin of the corpse they had just brought in; red blood freshly pouring onto the metal gurney.

 

“There was this one time; a man had just come barging in” she smiled at the thought “He said… h-he wanted to see a body. I didn’t know who he was. I had to tell him he couldn’t. But his eyes… oh his brilliant bluish-green eyes… were so… so persuasive”

 

The tall young man with the persuasive eyes was Sherlock; eagerly investigating a case he had read about in the paper. Molly didn’t know a thing about him, but she smiled so naturally when he was about. And for those few minutes he came in, prodding and poking things he shouldn’t have, Molly didn’t feel so alone.

 

He came, again and again. Each time a dead body had been brought in, she looked to the door half hoping, half expecting that Sherlock come barging in again as he did before. One day Sherlock stayed a little longer, borrowing some lab equipment. Molly stood beside him, biting her bottom lip as she watched him work. His purple long sleeved shirt and black pants went well together, she thought. It looked nice against his alabaster skin.

 

“I thought, because… I’m not really smart but I thought, I thought that I was special. That… we were sort of keeping each other company. It turns out that I was the only one thinking that. John Watson, or was it Jimmy… no it was John. They were always together.”

 

She sighs deeply, looking up, trying to hold in her tears.

 

“He was always cold, always mean, saying the rudest things because they were there in plain sight.” She pursed her lips thinking of Christmas night when he humiliated her in front of everyone. She thought of when he had called her boyfriend gay, when he had identified a woman from her body alone.

 

“It was just… He was just that way, I suppose. I secretly think that he was kinder than his words. There are these moments. Not a lot, but he becomes… for a short while, he’s kind and I can see him. I see him.”

 

One night she had seen him clearly and fully. She had told him about her father, how Sherlock reminded her of him. There was a sadness in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. But she was looking. And that’s when Molly said rather surely she didn’t count.

 

Then he said it. ‘I need you,’ his words come back, sending a shiver down her spine as she recalls the night Sherlock asked for her help, told her she counted, she was trusted. But after he said that he just walked past her. Molly stood there in the dark for a few minutes shocked at what had just happened. She told herself it might have been her imagination. Sherlock was never there to begin with. But she was sure. She saw him.

 

Molly looked back at the door, waiting for the consulting detective to emerge, to tell her the secrets that lay with this corpse in front of her. But she knew there wasn’t going to be any great surprises tonight; no sudden appearance or unbelievable mystery.

 

She turned to the stiff cold body before her; she touched the soft black hair, ran her finger over the man’s alabaster skin, admired his high cheekbones and wished with her whole heart to see those blue-green eyes.

 

“Sherlock” she sobbed


End file.
